


Here, Beneath My Lungs

by skyline



Category: Big Time Rush
Genre: Autoerotic Asphyxiation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 14:32:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/432189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyline/pseuds/skyline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is their love song; sometimes a ballad, sometimes an explosion of upbeat pop. Sometimes dark and bitter and full of loathing. It stretches on and on, endless, discord and harmony, thin notes and crashing crescendos. They create it from breath sounds, from the slap of skin and the harsh noises that tear from their throats, from mumbled prayers; the please-god-fuck’s and the yes-Jesus-yes’s that fall from their lips. And when James tugs at Kendall’s hands, wraps his long fingers tighter around his own throat, Kendall obeys without a word, nuzzling his nose against James’s spine, kissing the back of his neck wet and sweet as he tightens his grip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here, Beneath My Lungs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sick_Banjo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sick_Banjo/gifts).



> jblostfan16 wanted fic where James gets off with Kendall's hands on his throat. Chris gets what she wants.

**1.**  
  
They’re fighting.  
  
Yelling.  
  
Throwing things.  
  
James’s hockey medal nearly beans Kendall in the head, but he dodges at the last second, and it hits the wall with a dull metallic thud, the ridged edge sticking for a second before it plummets to the floor.  
  
 _Damn, missed_ , James thinks, looking for something else that is both heavy and dangerous.  
  
It’s not that he wants to _injure_ Kendall, it’s just that he’d really, really like to see him bleed right now, and okay, maybe that’s the same thing. Whatever. He’s thirteen, and pissed off, so mad with it that everything is tinged red-orange and he can feel his pulse behind his eyeballs.  
  
When they were smaller, they would play at fighting, with broad glances of plastic; Kendall’s sword against James’s light saber (with wooshing sound effects!). Whoever won was king for the day. They wore Mrs. Knight’s homecoming tiara with pride. Back then, nothing ever hurt for real.  
  
Now their fights are different, _brutal_ , and James does want Kendall to hurt, because some twisted part of him, deep down inside, likes it when he has that kind of power over his perfect, golden best friend. When he calms down, James will hate it; that impulse. It always ends up wounding _James_ in the long run, when Kendall doesn’t want to stick around and play video games, or rejects his friendship for a few days afterwards. But all the same, he doesn’t know how to control it. He likes the power, and he likes the pain, and maybe he even basks in the after part, where he feels sorry for himself.  
  
He lifts a school book with the vague idea that he’s not going to miss this time, but Kendall’s hands are on either side of James’s shoulders, and he’s shaking him and yelling, “James, _James_ , stop, you have to!” hands stroking over the shape of James’s collarbone, thumbs digging into the hollows, fingers curled around the base of his neck.  
  
 _Stop_ , Kendall is saying, but James can’t stop because there is a tightness in his chest that is unraveling under Kendall’s touch. It feels like Kendall’s thumbs have their own heartbeat, a pulse James can feel under his skin, that he later will realize is his own. And it doesn’t take a lot these days for his body to stand up and take notice, for his skin to get hot and itchy and tight.  
  
James makes a noise, a hapless thing that flutters in the air for a second before it dies away, and Kendall lets go, says, “I’m sorry did I hurt you? Just, I’m not trying to fight with you, dude.”  
  
James stares at Kendall’s fingers like they’re weaponized, disgusted with himself, but he manages to mumble, “No.”  
  
 _No_ , because that’s not it at all.  
  
 **2.**  
  
In celebration of a hockey victory, Kendall turns to him, hair stiff and coarse with dry sweat, like a lion’s mane. He wraps a hand around the back of James’s neck. His fingers skim the border of James’s helmet, pulling him in close with cupped warmth, and that spot becomes a glow, a pulse of heat. James can’t focus on the dudebro chest bump that follows, the back pat or the out-of-this-world smile Kendall is wearing, not really. Not when he’s got Kendall so close but so far from the place that James needs him to be.  
  
 **3.**  
  
“She’s a skank.”  
  
“She’s my girlfriend,” James objects, tossing a fry across the couch.  
  
Kendall’s forehead furrows and he says, “Your girlfriend’s a skank.”  
  
“Dude!”  
  
“I’m just telling it like it is.” Kendall crosses his arms and gives James that daring look, the insolent pout and the narrowed eyes, like he’s begging for a fight.  
  
“You can’t just call my girlfriend names.”  
  
“I can do whatever I want to do,” Kendall retorts, with all the false bravado a fifteen year old boy can muster. So James does what comes most naturally to him and throws another fry right in Kendall’s smug face.  
  
“God fucking damnit, can’t you ever just listen to me?” Kendall demands, batting the food away, voice pitched high and annoyed.  
  
 _Where’s the fun in that_? James thinks, but he focuses on Kendall’s eyes; on how Kendall has never looked at James like this before, like he’s disappointed in him. It makes something hot kick up inside of James’s stomach until it’s turned into a whirlwind, anger and shame so big that James feels like his body can’t contain it all. His ears roar with it, his skin ignites, and he doesn’t even remember throwing the first punch.  
  
The next thing he knows he’s got a lapful of Kendall, Kendall with a black eye and his own jaw is swelling up, bruised and hurt.  
  
“Why do you do that?” Kendall is asking into the skin of James’s throat, “Why do you lash out like that?”  
  
“Because.”  
  
“Because why?” Kendall insists, and he’s all up in James’s space, up in James’s lap, and James has no idea how he’s supposed to react to this, but popping a boner probably isn’t the correct response.  
  
Kendall noses against the line of James’s jaw, and the words rip from his mouth, “Because I want to hurt you like you hurt me.”  
  
“I hurt you?”  
  
“Of course you fucking hurt me. You’re supposed to be on my side,” James insists, lips brushing Kendall’s cheek. He’s so close. He’s too damn close. “You’re always supposed to be on my side. It makes me so mad when you aren’t.”  
  
Kendall pulls back, looks up at him, eyes bright and clear. He stares at James for so long that James starts getting uncomfortable, shifting his weight and hoping that Kendall won’t hitch his hips down, and also sort of hoping he will.  
  
Kendall finally, painstakingly nods and says, “Okay, yeah. I don’t like it when you’re not on my side either. And I guess I lash out at you too, but. I’m not Logan. I’m not always going to agree with what you say. And we can’t keep fighting like this.” Kendall reaches out and thumbs over James’s eye, the skin already puffy and beginning to swell. James winces; his nerve endings on fire. “You’re never going to be a popstar if I break your face.”  
  
James makes an indignant noise that cuts off when Kendall continues, “Look. I promise. Even if I don’t agree with you, I’m always on your side. No matter what, okay? Sometimes it just takes me a while to remember that.”  
  
“No matter what?”  
  
Kendall’s hand is on the back of James’s neck now, and it’s like his world shrinks down to that, to the touch that is too light for what James wants. The places where his fingertips graze James’s skin make his heart hammer. His body goes taut, interest a flood of heat that he can feel in his extremities; fingers and toes alive with sunlit warmth and the kind of curiosity that makes them twitch. Kendall knocks their foreheads together and says, “Of course,” genuine as can be. “Always.”  
  
But James thinks he’s wrong. One day, Kendall will figure out that there’s something _off_ about James, some part of him that likes it too rough, too _wrong,_ and Kendall will leave.  
  
 **4.**  
  
There’s this park down the street from his house, and sometimes James will run there, tuck up his legs on the rickety old merry-go-round while it spins lethargically. It’s a good place to think, to watch the sky grow crowded with clouds and figure out all the things that he can’t in the cold, barren enclosure of his room.  
  
He googles it once, the thing he is scared to name, just to see if he’s a complete freak of nature.  
  
He’s not.  
  
He also doesn’t quite fit into any of the definitions listed on Wikipedia. James doesn’t think he likes the idea of a belt, of leather that cuts or fabric that bites. He considers silk scarves, but dismisses the idea; it’s not the same as Kendall, as his callus-roughened hands and the way they feel around James’s throat.  
  
 **5.**  
  
They’re fucking around, wrestling over the TV changer because James wants to watch the Grammys and Kendall doesn’t really give a damn about the industry they’re in now; he’s more interested in how ESPN is marathoning old hockey games then checking out what the band should aspire to.  
  
Kendall’s got the upper hand at this point. He’s straddled across James’s lap, digging an elbow into James’s ribs and trying to lean the rest of his weight on a throw pillow he’s got smushed over James’s face in a desperate attempt to smother him into submission. James is flailing, laughing, twisting his head from side to side while he tries to suck in as much oxygen through his nose as he can before the terrible brocade muffles him completely.  
  
James isn’t too worried; he trusts Kendall implicitly, and besides, he is a champion breath-holder. He’s got a million sunny summer days behind him, lifeguarding at the local pool back in Minnesota, or earlier still, racing Carlos, Logan, and Kendall across the lake.  
  
Kendall’s heavy, his elbow bony in James’s stomach and the force behind his wiry muscles enough that James isn’t going to win until he loosens his guard. So James concedes, lets Kendall fully slide the pillow into place, blocking off his air with a heap of fabric and a victory whoop, “Who’s king of the remote now, bitch?”  
  
James would laugh if he could, because as far as he’s concerned Kendall will never be king of anything other than his own twisted imagination, but he’ll see. James is just biding his time.  
  
He can feel Kendall let up on the pillow a little bit, obviously pleased with his victory, and that’s when James cries, “ _Never_!” and tries to buck up, to escape the confines of Kendall’s gangly limbs. Kendall dives back down, pressing his full weight against the pillow, his body lining right up with James’s until they are pressed chest to chest, his hands keeping the throw pillow fully in place.  
  
And okay, James really can’t breathe now; and his lungs are starting to burn and fizz like a lighter without enough fluid, something tight in the pit of his stomach twingeing hard in warning. He hitches his hips up in earnest, trying to get enough force behind his arms or his legs that he can lever Kendall onto the floor, but that’s not exactly what happens. He doesn’t have the leverage to get his arms underneath him, and he can only lift his hips high enough that they bump against Kendall’s, grinding into him for a second before he sinks back into the couch. But that single instant of friction is something new, something bright and hard flaring to life in his chest, cutting through the dizziness, mainlining this lightning hot flash of pleasure straight down to his dick.  
  
It’s only a second later that Kendall pulls the pillow away, snorting, “Admit it, you lose,” but at that point James is so preoccupied by whatever that was that he can’t really process it, can’t do much more than retort that _Kendall’s got bony thighs_ , like that’s even a thing that people can have. It’s enough that Kendall gets all indignant and flustered and body-conscious like always.  
  
It’s enough that Kendall gets the hell off of him, far enough from James that he won’t be able to see or feel the slight tenting in his jeans.  
  
 **6.**  
  
The night everything changes, they’re drunk. Drunk beyond drunk. James is barely clinging to the edges of sobriety, trying to keep his vision from blurring and his memory from falling away. Kendall has gotten taller, his limbs thickening, his shoulders broadening. He is still the lanky, wiry limbed bossy bitchy of a boy James remembers from their childhood, but there is an inherent masculinity to the line of his jaw and the cord of muscle in his neck.  
  
Now, when Kendall walks into a room, every person in it holds their breath. Especially James.  
  
He shines, and it is not just the crook of his smile or the tilt of his eyes or the burnished gold of his hair; it’s the man he is becoming. He has a destiny so big and so grand that it clings to him like a visible thing. So of course, when he leans in close, his head lolling on James’s shoulder, James takes advantage of it.  
  
They trade a lot of kisses, at first playful and daring, then furtive and dangerous. James likes it best when Kendall fits their mouths together, kissing him hard and fast so that the only air they can get is from each other’s lips. It makes James feel dizzy, like a hit off of a cigarette, and Kendall knows, Kendall figures it out quick. Sometimes they’ll stop kissing entirely, lips touching, breathing each other’s oxygen until they both see stars behind their eyes. Then Kendall will kiss James hard and messy again, until James’s lips feel chapped and pink and he’s gasping for air, drawing deep exhalations from Kendall’s own lungs.  
  
When he finally pulls away, a thin thread of saliva connects their lips.  
  
“Come to my room,” James begs, and Kendall nods, frantic with it.  
  
It’s going fine, going better than fine, and they’re naked, and somehow Kendall’s got his hand at the base of James’s throat, and he’s pressing down against James’s collarbone as he moves into him, so slow, too gentle, not nearly as hard or as fast as James needs. James makes this high, whiny noise, wanting more, wanting Kendall’s hand to move up a few inches, wanting too many things that he doesn’t know how to say out loud.  
  
Kendall, of course, moves his hand, asks- _am I hurting you?_ \- and no, this isn’t what James wants at all. He is nervous and shaky, but also excited. He wants to stop and he wants to start and he isn’t sure which feeling is stronger, but he knows he’s going to have to choose in the next five seconds, so he chooses the latter, of course he does, because there is no way he could put an end to this when he wants it so much. He grabs for Kendall’s fingers, twisting them in his, kissing against the tips for a brief moment- _reassurance_ \- and then wrapping them back around his own neck, higher this time.  
  
Kendall stares at him, dark, uncertain. He wants control; James can see it. _Take it_ , he thinks. _Just take what you want_.  
  
And then Kendall does. He wraps his hand around James, no pressure on his windpipe, squeezing until James’s last gasp is captured somewhere between his Adam’s apple and his tongue, a taste he can roll around in his mouth as everything goes hazy _sharp_.  
  
He can feel his heartbeat in his throat, can see blackness at the edge of his vision, and it’s like his body isn’t his own anymore.  
  
He is entirely Kendall’s.  
  
 **7.**  
  
There’s an entire world out there that James forgets all about when they’re on tour; morning interviews and afternoons spent lost in a fog of energy and cat naps as they schlep from one small town to the next in the cramped bus, Kendall wrapped around him in a cocoon of warmth. Then evenings faking smiles for more beady-eyed reporters, eager for a break that will make them, and concerts in increasingly bigger and better venues. Then sleep, again, if it can even be called sleep; sometimes in hotels, but mostly in the bunks, pressed up against each other’s heat until they have to start the dark-mornings all over again.  
  
James lives by the night lights of towns he’s never heard of.  
  
And he and Kendall never fight, too tired and too fucked out from actual work and each other. A part of James wishes they could spend every day just like this, in a haze of sunshine and laughter, punchdrunk off each other.  
  
It would never work; they both get so inexplicably angry, need their own space, need a kind of individuality that is separate from the other. They are too vain, each convinced that they’re set to become masters of the universe, and every time they compete against each other it makes them sick with envy and unending love, until they combust and start all over again.  
  
But for the moment, they’re okay, they’re calm, and every night James has champagne bubbles in his head, making everything sparkle, making everything fuzzy at the edges. With Kendall’s hands around his neck James can feel his own pulse, his bones shift beneath muscle, and every angle of Kendall, of the near-painful catch and pull of his skin inside of James, raw and wonderful.  
  
 **8.**  
  
When they’re back home, he sits on the bottom of the Palmwoods pool and stares up at the sun, a big, golden, watery thing, blurred and burning his eyes. His lungs are full to bursting, and it is not the same.  
  
He thinks maybe it’s not just the danger and it’s not just the high. It’s the after parts, lying sprawled across Kendall’s body and feeling like he can actually breathe.  
  
 **9.**  
  
They’re back home in Minnesota, and James is eavesdropping.  
  
“My baby’s growing up,” his mom laments, and James listens to Mrs. Knight’s murmur of sympathy, something about what _strong young men_ he and Kendall are becoming.  
  
“When he was a baby, they were scared he’d stop breathing. He was on an apnea monitor for six months.” His mom sniffles. “I couldn’t go out or get a baby sitter or-or-or-“ James hears her blow her nose. “Now my baby’s so big. Listen to him sing.”  
  
The radio spikes; James’s voice a clear note.  
  
“What are you doing? Are you spying?” Kendall demands with mock incredulity, padding up to him, wrapping his arms loose around James’s shoulders.  
  
“Shhhh,” James hushes him frantically.  
  
“Why? Are they talking about something important?” Kendall listens in for a second before making a face and deciding, “Mom stuff.”  
  
James thinks about what his mom said, about how the doctors had been scared he’d stop breathing. He rubs his fingertips against his neck, against the bruises Kendall has left and wonders what exactly it is he’s trying to do.  
  
 **10.**  
  
The park has gone to seed, overgrown, the equipment rusted. There are chains across the link fence warning intruders to _keep the fuck out_ , but James vaults over them with more ease and grace than he ever had as a kid. He sits on the merry-go-round and spins, thinking, trying to figure out how he left Minnesota behind without really meaning to, somehow always meaning to.  
  
Kendall finds him, and it’s not even a surprise, because just like Kendall promised he is always there when James needs him. He wraps his arms around James’s midsection. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Nothing. Just…homesick, I guess.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
“No. Not really.” James pulls them both up so that they’re standing on the shaking wooden base of the merry-go-round. He wants to say something, something big and grand, but he can’t really find the words he needs. He closes his mouth and stares at Kendall for a long, hard moment.  
  
Kendall has no trouble taking over the conversation, because he’s Kendall. He steps in close, nudging up against James’s cheekbone, lips brushing the tip of his nose, the indent of his philtrum, anywhere except his goal. James’s lips part, and he can taste it when Kendall begs, “Kiss me. Please, kiss me.”  
  
And so James does, and more than that; he lets Kendall shrug his jeans down past his hips, lets him bend over one of the metal rails of the merry-go-round and say, “You look so hot like this,” and James can feel his eyes burning along the notches of his spine, the crack of his ass on down, where he teases in and out, dipping his cock just enough to get it wet, to see what James looks like tight around the head.  
  
“It’s cold,” James complains, metal pressing into his hipbones, the wind a tease against his skin.  
  
“You talk too much,” Kendall tells him, nipping at his neck. James’s head rolls back, his eyes too, and this is obscene; they’re in the center of a park. Kendall wends one hand through his hair, the other wrapped around the front of his neck. He mutters, “Just shut up and take it,” pressing James harder into the metal.  
  
In the still of dusk James can make out the skeleton shapes of the jungle gym and the swings, the fossils of his childhood. Kendall is heat and this slide that is almost painfully good, a kind of raw and aching that James is still barely used to. And he can’t breathe. He’s got Kendall’s hands around his neck it’s like his entire world is reduced to one thing; Kendall, and the feel of him, and the shape of him, and his weight. James’s head goes fuzzy, and he needs to take shallow breaths to keep the black away, to keep the stars from taking over his world.  
  
This is their love song; sometimes a ballad, sometimes an explosion of upbeat pop. Sometimes dark and bitter and full of loathing. It stretches on and on, endless, discord and harmony, thin notes and crashing crescendos. They create it from breath sounds, from the slap of skin and the harsh noises that tear from their throats, from mumbled prayers; the please-god- _fuck_ ’s and the yes-Jesus- _yes_ ’s that fall from their lips. And when James tugs at Kendall’s hands, wraps his long fingers tighter around his own throat, Kendall obeys without a word, nuzzling his nose against James’s spine, kissing the back of his neck wet and sweet as he tightens his grip.


End file.
